Halloween

by John Passarella

  As Ray and Cameron approached, Cameron reached out to give Allyson her belongings, but she hurried past him into her mother’s arms.

  Ray walked up to Laurie beside her pickup. Clearly he had something on his mind—and she probably deserved whatever he was about to say. She decided to preempt his attack with a mea culpa. “Yes, Ray,” she said. “I messed up. Won’t happen again. But it probably will. I’m not perfect, but I’m trying to be… better.”

  Ray stared at her.

  “Is that all you have to say?” she asked, quirking a smile.

  “Are you safe to drive?”

  Cameron stood next to him.

  “Cameron,” Laurie said. “Pleasure to meet you, however briefly. I hope we’ll have time to get to know each other—under better circumstances.”

  “Sure,” Cameron said, nodding. “No problem.”

  After that he drifted back a step or two, casually looking side to side, removing himself from the conversation.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Ray persisted.

  “Of course I’m okay to drive,” Laurie said.

  “You’ve had a few.”

  “Not all my problems are alcohol-related,” Laurie said. “Today was more… more than I expected. But I’m better now—getting better.”

  “That girl loves you, you know,” Ray said.

  Laurie nodded. A fresh lump in her throat prevented her from speaking.

  “Don’t let her down.”

  Laurie inferred the unspoken “too” at the end of his statement. She appreciated the kindness of the omitted accusation. An olive branch of sorts, but a small one, because she also read the warning in his statement.

  With the strength of conviction, she said, “I won’t.”

  Ray waited while she climbed into the pickup and stood with Cameron as she pulled away from the curb and slipped into the flow of traffic. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she glanced in the rearview mirror, watching them recede from view. Without her in their orbit, they were normal. That’s what everyone wanted. A normal life. Something she could never have.

  She never intended to disappoint her family. But she prioritized their lives and safety over having a normal existence. Laurie had raised Karen to face—to survive—the Boogeyman, an enemy Karen, fortunately, had never known and, because of that, she never understood Laurie’s extreme behavior. She only witnessed one side in the battle of wills: the preparation to battle an implacable evil.

  “You can’t kill the Boogeyman.”

  Laurie had never forgotten the frightened words of Tommy Doyle, her young babysitting charge from that dreadful night. If there was no end to the Boogeyman, how could Laurie lower her guard? As the “one that got away” from a madman, from evil, she would never be safe. Instead of hiding in fear, she had chosen to prepare herself for when the day came—not if, but when. And because of who she was, Karen and Allyson were at risk as well. She knew the danger they faced even if it was beyond their comprehension.

  In Karen’s case, ignorance hadn’t been bliss. Instead, she’d been a child frightened by her own mother and her bizarre behavior. They’d taken Karen away from Laurie, and Karen’s life had improved because of it. So, Karen kept Allyson away from Laurie. And despite her best intentions, Laurie’s actions and behavior continued to reinforce her daughter’s belief that Allyson was better off without her.

  Allyson, in typical teenage rebellion, fought against restrictions, which brought her closer to Laurie. But another incident or two like the aborted dinner celebration tonight and Laurie might just succeed in pushing away another generation of the Strode family.

  No matter how much she tortured herself debating “what if” and “what could have been,” the inescapable truth for Laurie was that even knowing what she knew now, she would not have done anything differently. She believed, even to this day, that her difficult path had prepared her for what was to come. If he died and she was wrong, she might have regrets, but her conviction remained strong.

  She hadn’t seen the last of him…

  * * *

  Karen hugged her daughter until she regained some control of her emotions following her grandmother’s outburst in Bellini’s and the near miss outside the restaurant. When Allyson calmed, Karen leaned back, holding her daughter by the shoulders, not letting go yet.

  Ray and Cameron, who had talked briefly with Laurie, stepped away from the pickup truck as it pulled away from the curb.

  “You needed to see this,” Karen said to Allyson. “You need to know. She’s a missionary one minute and a mercenary the next. I was raised to trust no one.” Discussing her childhood brought vivid images to Karen’s mind. Suddenly, she’s eight years old again, perched in a deer blind, her mother beside her as she sights down the barrel of a rifle and pulls the trigger—BLAM!

  “Our house was a bunker. I lived on lockdown my entire childhood. We’d hide in the basement every time the paranoia set in. I still have nightmares about that room.” Karen paused, trying to shake off a visceral memory of the dank basement, the stale air, her mother’s anxious whispering in her ear, planting the seeds for a lifetime of nightmares. She’s eight again, mopping the basement floor when she looks up and sees her mother in silhouette above the staircase, staring down at her.

  “She didn’t let me go to school. Instead she trained me to shoot and fight…” Ten-year-old Karen punches and kicks a homemade punching bag hanging from a tree as her mother shouts, “Again! Again!” Never a tire swing or hammock in their backyard. Only the heavy bag and various objects for target practice.

  “Until social services came and took me away.” Young Karen, twelve years old now, sits in the back of a county sedan, tall enough to look out the window and see her mother on the porch, receding in the distance. At that moment, Karen feels completely alone in the world. Less than a year after that traumatic separation, Karen began to experience the freedom of a mostly normal childhood, absent of the claustrophobia and paranoia that ruled her mother’s world. “I’ve had to unlearn the neurosis she planted in my head.”

  Ray approached mother and daughter, with Cameron trailing behind, carrying Allyson’s belongings. She took her coat from him and slipped it on to ward off the chill in the air. Looking from Allyson to Karen, Ray said, “I’ll never understand your mother.”

  “She chose this,” Karen said. “Chose this obsession.”

  “To be fair,” Ray said, “wasn’t it the other way around?”

  “No,” Karen said. “I’m not talking about what happened to her. I’m talking about her reaction to it. It’s like she’s spent her entire adult life preparing for the past. She’s lived every day in fear he’s coming back. And now she doesn’t know what to do.”

  “Well, he’s long gone now,” Ray said after a glance at his wristwatch. “So, she needs to figure it out.”

  “She’s broken, Ray,” Karen said. “I don’t think she can.”

  * * *

  Officer Frank Hawkins demonstrated his pinball wizardry on his favorite machine at the back of Kasey’s Quick Stop. This one had a space battle theme, called “Mission: Alpha” in a blood-red font, with pictures of spaceships and tentacled aliens on the backbox. Something about the design reminded him of one of his favorite films, War of the Worlds. The Gene Barry version, not the Cruise remake. Simpler times. When it was comforting to think that something as basic as an earth germ could thwart an overwhelming planetary invasion. These days, long after he should have retired from the force, there were never any easy answers, not in film or real life. Everything was so damn complicated.

  At least pinball remained simple—long as you knew how to rock the playfield with as much skill as Wizard Hawkins. Yes, he was in the zone.

  “Mission: Alpha” blinked, blooped, buzzed, clicked, clacked; ringing bells and flashing lights were interspersed with ray-gun sound effects and staticky explosions. His score climbed to dizzying heights, the entire machine trembling as he pounded on the flipper buttons to keep the
silver ball in play.

  Corey and Stanford, fellow officers on break, stood on either side of him, spectating while offering occasional suggestions. Shameel, the night clerk, stood near the counter, filling large plastic cups from the slushy fountain.

  “Yo, Hawkins, you want that strawberry slushy or blue raspberry slushy?” Shameel called.

  “I’m in wizard mode, Shameel,” Hawkins called back without taking his eyes off the ricocheting ball. “Get me a coffee if you don’t mind. Thanks. I’ll get you back.”

  “I’ll have the strawberry,” Stanford said.

  Smirking, Corey said, “No shit.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Stanford asked defensively.

  “You always get strawberry.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do,” Corey said. “Every. Damn. Time. Doesn’t he, Hawk?”

  “Leave me out of this.”

  Stanford shrugged. “I know what I like.”

  “Change it up for once,” Corey said.

  “Nothing wrong with strawberry.”

  “Try the damn blue raspberry!”

  “You guys mind?” Hawkins said. “Working my magic here—damn!”

  One bad ricochet and the ball arced right through the gap between flippers, almost in slow motion and, short of a hip check, he couldn’t do a thing about it. As the ball vanished from play, he rapped the glass with the edge of his fist. “Believe that shit?”

  “Don’t abuse the machine,” Shameel said sternly, quickly adding, “Officer.”

  “Hot fuzz was born to lose,” Corey said, with a razzing shake of his head. “Get that flow play.”

  At least Stanford had something helpful to add. “If the ball comes down loose, don’t hit the bounce pass,” he said. “It’s gonna hit off that broken flipper then whack the bottom of the slingshot and go down the middle.”

  “Where was that advice sixty seconds ago?”

  “Hey, I’m not the wizard.”

  “Right,” Hawkins said. Live by the sword…

  A new ball emerged—

  —and Hawkins’ radio squawked. “Dispatch to unit 601. We have a 10-50 on Marla Road. Please respond.”

  With a sigh, Hawkins reached up and squeezed the transmit button on his radio’s remote speaker mic. “Copy, dispatch,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

  Shameel intercepted Hawkins to hand him his coffee.

  “Thanks, man.” He took a sip of the coffee, gave a thumbs up, then called back to the others. “Hey, Corey, take over my game. Hot fuzz was born to lose.”

  Corey would flame out in two minutes. Guaranteed.

  As Hawkins walked out of the convenience store, the plate-glass door closing behind him, Stanford shouted, “Back to the beat, Hawk! Serve and protect.”

  Hawkins smiled. “Up yours, Stanford!”

  * * *

  Once in his patrol car, Hawkins requested an exact location for the 10-50 and proceeded down the deserted stretch of Marla Road until he spotted the mile marker and the flashing hazard lights of the transport bus. He slowed the cruiser until the shape of the bus resolved itself against the backdrop of trees and overhanging branches. Briefly, he wondered why the bus driver had driven past the shoulder of the road and down the embankment. Not a breakdown or loss of power then. Possible he fell asleep at the wheel or had a heart attack. Maybe swerved to avoid a deer.

  Hawkins steered onto the shoulder of the road and flipped on his light bar, bathing the scene in flickering red and blue lights. Hand on his sidearm, he climbed out of the cruiser looking for bus passengers but saw nobody.

  “Sheriff’s Department!” he called into the darkness. “If you need assistance, please let yourself be known!”

  He took a step forward and nearly tripped over a bloodied man in uniform lying in the gravel on the shoulder of the road. Hawkins’ attention had been focused on the abandoned bus. Another few feet and he might have run over the body.

  Hawkins pressed the transmit button on his mic. “Signal 13. I have an officer down. Officer down. I need assistance. Send backup right away.”

  “Copy that, 601,” dispatch responded.

  Hawkins considered himself fit, especially for someone in his early sixties, but when he crouched to check the prone man for a pulse, his aging knees raised a painful protest, a silent reminder of his own mortality. Unfortunately, Kuneman—the name stitched on the man’s uniform—was beyond Hawkins’ help.

  Without turning his back on the scene, Hawkins reached into his patrol car and grabbed his shotgun with the SureFire WeaponLight. Shotgun elevated, close to firing position, he stalked forward, arcing the light across the length of the bus. “‘Illinois Department of Corrections,’” he read aloud. “Not good.”

  Something at the back of the bus caught his eye. A few steps closer and he made out a figure sitting in the glare of the blinking red light, looking up awkwardly.

  Hawkins directed the beam of light on the figure. “Show me your hands!”

  No movement.

  “Now!”

  Nothing. Another few steps removed any doubt. The man—civilian in his forties—was dead. Extreme head tilt, mouth agape. Up close, the SureFire light revealed a broken neck, and shattered vertebrae pressing against the taut flesh of the man’s discolored throat.

  Next to the man, Hawkins saw the boy—a teenager, the man’s son—who’d placed the emergency call, lying in a pool of his own blood. The kid’s throat had been savaged, so Hawkins dropped to one knee and checked his wrist for a pulse. Nothing.

  At the sound of a voice calling from inside the bus, Hawkins’ gaze shifted upward, to the rear door of the bus. He checked, found it unlocked, and swung the door open to peer into the bus’s dark interior. Bracing his left hand against the door frame, he stepped up, keeping the shotgun and light trained forward throughout.

  “Show your hands!”

  A faint voice replied, “I can’t.”

  Hawkins followed the sound of the voice and directed the SureFire light at the bloodied figure of a graying man with a mustache, wearing a brown business suit, chained to a seat. Squinting, the man gasped in pain from a shoulder wound, his body sagging with weakness.

  “Sir. Help is coming,” Hawkins said. The wound didn’t look fatal, but Hawkins couldn’t tell how much blood the man had lost or if he’d suffered other injuries. He looked about as old as Hawkins and was at risk of going into shock or cardiac arrest. According to ID in the man’s wallet, he was a doctor at Smith’s Grove, Ranbir Sartain. “Stay with me!”

  Abruptly, Sartain looked up, revived, as if suddenly remembering something of the utmost importance. Eyes wild, he asked, “Did he… Did he escape?”

  Judging by the man’s alarm, Hawkins suspected one man had been responsible for no less than three murders here tonight.

  “Who?” Hawkins asked and got no response. “Who? Did who escape?”

  Sartain’s eyelids drifted down, the spark that had temporarily revived him fading, succumbing to unconsciousness.

  Hawkins heard the approaching wail of sirens.

  12

  October 31st

  In addition to a strong cup of coffee, Dana relied on a hot shower to start a new day, otherwise she stumbled through her morning a muddle-headed mess. Unfortunately, the budget motel’s water pressure wasn’t quite up to the task of revivifying lethargic muscles. Or maybe she should blame the generic showerhead. Its default setting—the only setting—could best be described as gentle rain. She’d spent a fair amount of time shampooing her long red hair, and it was taking a godawful amount of time to rinse out the lather. If she didn’t skip the conditioner, she’d probably run out of hot water.

  Head bowed directly under the showerhead, she closed her eyes and stood still, letting the water course through her hair. She tried to speed the process by wringing suds and water at the ends with a twist of her hands.

  A slight sound—a creak—not of her own making caught her attention.

  She ra
ised her head and turned toward the translucent shower curtain, blinking the misty spray from her eyes. Steam billowed up from her shower, spreading through the bathroom beyond. Thinking her imagination had begun to run wild, she almost turned back toward the showerhead but froze. The rectangular shape of the door shifted several inches, opening.

  Had she heard the twist of the doorknob? The squeak of a hinge?

  A moment later a shape moved through the doorway, a vague silhouette—at first. As it took several steps closer, the indistinct figure resolved into the shape of a man who then stood still, waiting. Something about the silhouette disturbed her on a subconscious level. Something not quite… human.

  Incipient fear gnawed at her, stealing her voice, catching her breath.

  Abruptly, the figure’s arm rose, hand gripping the edge of the shower curtain and yanking it aside, revealing—

  A naked man—save for the pale Michael Myers mask with its shock of brown hair that hid his face—stood before her. Her scream died in her throat, flushed away with a surge of relief. Even with his face hidden, she recognized his tall physique.

  “Room for one more?” Aaron asked.

  Dana laughed. “Take that hideous thing off.”

  Aaron reached around to the back of the mask and tugged it off.

  “God, Aaron,” she said. “You scared me half to death. Thought you went out for coffee.”

  “That was ages ago,” he said. “You have any idea how long you’ve been in here?”

  She smiled. “Ages, I would assume.”

  “Sounds about right,” Aaron said, then looked down thoughtfully at the mask. “When I wear this, there is a certain tendency or… inclination that the legacy of the mask seems to inspire.”

  “Please don’t murder me.”

  Aaron laid the mask on the counter. Then he took her hand and raised it to his lips like a nobleman greeting a lady in a Regency romance novel—except for the little detail of their both being nude, one soaking wet and a bit soapy.

  “I would never,” he said. “I need your smile.”

  “Get in here already,” she said, laughing. “I’m getting cold.”